


Not The Candy Type

by ChatDeLaMort



Series: The way to love has speed bumps on it [1]
Category: Numb3rs
Genre: Caring Ian, Drunken Don, Fluff, Friendship, Humour
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-27
Updated: 2015-06-11
Packaged: 2018-04-01 12:57:05
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,968
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4020670
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ChatDeLaMort/pseuds/ChatDeLaMort
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Don is drunk as hell. Oh boy, is he drunk. And done with doing the hard work and getting none out of it except paperwork and a praised brother. But it's his lucky day: Ian Badass Edgerton is like always there to cover his back. And to take him home. Then the awakening brings up some suprises for the Special Agent.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Oh, Donnieboy

**Author's Note:**

> For me it's friendship fluff. Their interaction is really cute, they obviously respect each other. So I decided to give Don someone who without hesitation says "You are my favourite brother!". He deserves it!
> 
> Still not my native language. Still looking for a beta. Anyone interested? :D

 

Don insisted that the wasn't drunk. One couldn't be drunk if one could still count his beers.

This one could. He surely had between four and seven and that still counted as counting. And the fact that he won this argument against himself didn't make it feel less triumphant.

 

"Six.", answered a rough voice next to him garnishing that statement with an amused grin.

 

"Beg your pardon, Sir?" He frowned. That may have sounded in his head like a totally common answer for a fourty-something-looking, overused, exhausted, outpowered, overtired - he lost the beginning of his thought.

 

The man's roaring laughter didn't help at all. "Sir? Donnieboy is calling me Sir? What is this, your wet dream of me being your Mister Gray?"

 

First Don wanted to become angry for getting called Donnieboy by a someone, at least he was a respectablablebla- something of a Special Agent and a badass, but then he suddenly remembered he acutally knew this guy very well and his name wasn't Sir and... then he lost his thinking again.

 

"You speak out loud everything that crosses your mind when you're drunk.", explained a clearly entertained Ian to him.

 

Don was sure he made that up. But that was okay as long as it kept that marvelous version of Ian's rare smiles on the man's face.

 

"You spoke that out loud, too."

 

Don snorted.

 

"Oh, Donnieboy, what is eating you up so that you are as drunk as an irish sailor at eleven o'clock in a bar filled with nice girls who would have loved to take you home three beers ago?" Ian winked at the barkeeper and ordered water. Boring Ian.

 

"Better boring but sober enough to drive you home. And to prevent you from the mother of hangovers." A glass filled with transparent liquid appeared in front of him. Maybe it was his lucky day and it'd turn out to be vodka.

 

"It's not."

 

Don rolled his eyes and considered that Ian might be right about him speaking out loud his thoughts when drunk.

 

"You do. But it's adorable. And incredibly practical."

 

"Why so?" Don dipped his tongue into the liquid. Bah. Water.

 

"Because you tell me funny things then. Oh, and you give really nice compliments. Honestly, the best ones the more drunk you get."

 

"Doubt that."

 

"Oh, Donnie, Donnie... you can pretend all you want but we both know you are a nice guy with a golden heart as big as Texas."

 

" 'm not nice."

 

"You are a lot of good things, Don Eppes. Do we agreee there and just not discuss "nice or not nice" in your state?"

 

Don cogitated about that. Then he pondered what the reason in the first place could have been to start thinking.

 

"Donnieboy, you might be the most adorable thing in the world in this moment. Now, come on. Time to get you home."

 

A strong arm lifted him up from the barstool and for a moment the world spinned in a funny way around him. To get sure he wasn't the one spinning he grabbed the next best thing looking steady which happened to be a neck. Necks were great.

 

"Right direction. Just hold yourself up, I'll get the rest done." A warm breath flew over his cheecks and the scent of... things crawled up his nose. Scent of... goddamit, what was it called? It wasn't thing, it was...

 

The arm pulled him closer to the nice smelling thing which did the talking and paying with the barkeeper like the world wasn't playing Takeshi's Castle.

 

Damn it, world.

 

"You know, it's not nice to call your saviour a thing."

 

"I'm not a damsell in distress, _Mister Saviour_."

 

"Of course not. Otherwise I wouldn't be liking you that much."

 

Don wasn't sure whether he heard or hallucinated these last words. And he had to be sure. An agent in his position had to be sure in... everything. Yeah. That sounded about right.

 

"You don't have to be."

 

"Charlie is."

 

"Charlie is what?"

 

"Sure. Always. He knows... things. You know. Things. Every...things. Is that a word?"

 

"No. And Charlie is not. He couldn't even spell 'everythings' properly. And he sucks badly at agent's stuff."

 

"He..."

 

"He does. And now, big boy, I'll make sure you go to bed."

 

Boring Ian.

 

"Heard that."

 

 

\-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

 

 

In Dons appartement Ian finally succeeded in forcing Don to drink some water, taking two aspirins and heading to his bed which Don had refused to do all way home. And with refused Ian meant Don's frequent comment that he would never go to bed ever again. What he hadn't expected, though, was a Don muffling into his pillow: "It's not fair."

 

He sat down next to him, partly amused and concerned by the disappointment in Don's voice making him sound like a sullen teenager. "What's not fair?"

 

Don lifted his head, looked at him, opened his mouth – and closed it. He frowned irritated. "What's not fair?"

 

"You tell me! You said that."

 

"I didn't."

 

"You did."

 

"I didnt!"

 

"You... Jesus Christ, go to sleep." Ian grinned down upon him and Don decided it would be the best just to grin back. He rolled around, positioned his head on Ians lap and closed his eyes.

 

"Huuuu... earth is really faaaast tonight."

 

Ian was too surprised by the sight – and feeling - of a cuddling Don to stop him from grabbing his hand. Don entwined their finger and put them onto his side pulling Ian forward jerkily. The sniper just managed not to land on top of him. "Don?"

 

"Hm?"

 

"This is not the slightest bit comfortable."

 

"Hm?..."

 

"Don?"

 

Silence. Then a sigh.

 

"Don?"

 

Don only snored loudly as an answer. Carefully Ian tried to withdraw his hand but even cold out Don had a firm grip. He rolled his eyes and let out a frustated sight. This would be a long night.

 

 

\-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

 

 

 

Don woke up to what might be the strangest view in his entire life. One of the deadliest man in the country lay curled up by his side, fully clothed but with a clearly protective hold of Dons torso.

And then he noticed his waking as even stranger: he couldn't move his hands. Or, well, he could, but not very far and his arms were stretched out and there was something cold on his wrists and...

 

"Holy crap!" Don gazed at the handcuffs in disbelief. Then he looked down. He also was more or less fully clothed. What in hell had happened that Ian meant to _cuff_ him?


	2. Revelation

Some one moved.

 

"Ian.", grumbled Don, joggling impatient on the bonds and regrettig it immediately when the noise sent a sharp pain throught his wobbling brain.

 

Ian muttered something, let go of Don's body and rolled around.

 

Don waited.

 

Nothing happened.

 

He shortly pondered if Ian'd be a man of pretending not to be awake to avoid the awkward situation of being caught cuddling. Not that the two of them hadn't shared a bed yet, hadn't felt the warmth of the other man's body – and what happens while fugitive tracking stays on fugitive tracking -, but that was years ago and Ian had never exactly been the snuggling type. Plus it would be an easy task for him to just shoot Don and report is as an accident. If there was someone knowing how to let it look like a coincidence, it'd be Ian.

 

Taking a deep breath he prepared himself for the following pain when he blared an "IAN!" into the room, causing the called to jump off the bed hoicking his gun in a fluent movement from under the pillow and to point it at the assumed attacker. It was impressive, just as well scary, and Don decided instantly to never ever surprise this man again.

 

"Morning.", he smiled in the most possible innocent way. "Is that a  M1911 or are you just pleased to see me?”

 

Ian's eyes cleared and the Killer-FBI-look changed to a pissed-off-irritated-face which opened the mouth and snarled: “What the hell, Eppes?”

 

Don joggled again on his handcuffs. “You had me all night, now let me go.” Ian raised his eyebrow. “Please?”, he threw in his best puppy eyes.

 

Ian shook his head but went to pull out the keys from his jacket. "I could have shot you by accident, you know? You deserve a whole week in cuffs for that idiocity."

 

"Yeah... I'm sorry." Seeing Ian still furrowing his brow in anger while he lend over to open the cuffs he repeated his excuse. "I truly am. I didn't think it through and it sounded funny in my head."

 

"Accepted. At least you are the only guy I know beeing foolish enough to prank me."

 

Don laughed and rubbed his newlyfreed wrists. "Bad habits don't come off easy."

 

"You are a complete jerk, Don Epps."

 

"And you're a hidden pervert."

 

"Bitch."

 

"No, I mean for real. What was the cuffing about? Did I forget something about the night?"

 

Ian smiled his feral, predatory smile that more than once had led Don straight to bed. Considering him being already there he felt a little mocked. He rolled his eyes at him.

 

"Get that look off your face, I know nothing happened tonight."

 

Ian chuckled. "I just couldn't stand you anymore, kicking me out of bed like a dog. I deserve better than that, you know?"

 

A guilty grin crossed Don's face. This wasn't the first time he was accused of moving too much when sleeping drunk and surely not the last.

 

"Yeah... smile as much as you like. Those puppy-eyes won't fool me. You _hit_ me. Seriously. _Hit_. Look at that!" Ian rolled up his sleeves to reveal an impressive bruise.

 

Don lifted an eyebrow. "You just want to show me your muscles to make me envious, don't you?"

 

Ian winked – and flexed his muscles. "No, but now that you mention it..." He wriggled his eyebrows.

 

Don laughed, regretting it outright when every shake made his headache worse. With a loud moaning he buried his face in his hands. Suddenly a big hand placed a wet, cold washrag on top of his head. A "Thank god!" from the bottom of his heart slipped from his lips. Trying to press the pleasant coldness into his brain he leaned back, expecting falling down onto the bed but getting caught by Ians firm arresting-fugitives-proven grip.

 

"Playtime over, Eppes. There was something buggering you yesterday. I know you long enough to know that you see most problems like an itch that just has to be scratched. And when it itches that much that you try to drown it, we maybe should have a talk about it."

 

"Since when do you care so much, mother hen?" Don tried to override it with joking but Ian had put on his best bitchy resting face and waited. And if there was someone knowing how to wait, it'd be Ian.

 

He sighed. "It's no big deal. Truly, more an itch than anything else. When I'm too exhausted I get melodramatic and melancholic and walk straight into the puddle of selfpityness. It's nothing to worry about, Ian. I just needed sleep."

 

"Okay. Still want to know. And still decide myself about my worries."

 

Don went silent. And flushed. A real, embarrassed flush. "It's that unimportant that I'm embarrassed to get drunk about it. So I'd like to not talk about it. Could we please leave it?"

 

Ian folded his arms. "I know you. You only drink too much when you think you failed or didn't do your best. And you better give me the chance to talk this stupidity out of you because fucking it out is no option anymore with you in a relationship." Ian grinned. "Your loss."

 

Don chuckled involuntarily.

 

"Come on, Big Boy. Tell Uncle Ian."

 

"That tone just proves my "hidden pervert"-theory, you know?"

.

"Don't try to change the subject."

 

Don's shoulders tensed for a moment. But, hell, Ian knew much more embarrassing stuff about him (like the one time he caught him crying over a sappy book. Or when Don told him how he fangirled out that one time he met Al Pacino on a case. Or when... never mind.).

 

"It's Charlie. I mean... I love my baby brother, I really do. And I love working with him, he is so...helpful and reliable and-" Don shrugged. "You know. He is great."

 

Silence followed. Ian cleared his throat.

 

"And..?"

 

"And everybody loves him."

 

"And?"

 

"Well... that's it. You know? Everybody loves him. I mean, I'm glad the time he got bullied is over, I'm happy that he gets respected and appreciated, he had a tough time when he was young, everybody picked on him and now-"

 

"Don, wait a moment." Don's head had fallen down, his eyes stirring, _blaming_ the floor while his words seemed to fall unsystematicly out of his mouth. Ian put an arm around his friend's shoulder. " I think I understand."

 

Don didn't even look up.

 

"Charlie is... the sparkling fairy at the bureau. He shimmies into the office and scatters fairy dust all over the place. And everybody stares and applaudes."

 

Don first nodded, then shook his head. "I'm not jealous. It's not like that. I don't... I don't want to take his status from him."

 

"But any recognition at all wouldn't hurt, right?"

 

"His math is... helpful. It is. But it's a probability in the end." Don's voice became quiet. "I'm afraid to rely too much on them and one day get careless and make the wrong decision. I will be the one to blame. Not Charlie, not the math. I will have done the wrong thing."

 

"You won't." Ian pressed – surprised himself by that -a kiss on Don's forehead. "I know you won't. Not just because you are one of the most skeptical men on this planet-" he grinned – "but because you are a fucking good leader. If you ever, _ever_ did or will do make a bad decision, it'll be because there was no other way."

 

He grimaced. "I still think this is also about Charlie getting the applause."

 

"It's not... the applause. He knows, that he is... right." Don told the floor. "When he works with math he is always so damn sure. He doesn't have to think consequences or politics or... whatever. He just says words like "Riemann hypothesis" and then his things magically work out. He never seems to question himself. Or even has to do so."

 

"That doesn't make him superior."

 

The shock in Don's eyes told Ian that he struck home. "I didn't say-"

 

"You don't have to. I yet noticed how people speak about the professor. They are impressed and enthusiastic because they don't understand a fraction of what he's doing." Ian shrugged. "I never thought of it as something to be personally impressed by. Of course, the professor does great things and thinks in great, really not understable ways – but for him it is like... brain yoga. He calculates, but he calculates numbers, not facts of cases. Like he everyday calculates with numbers. That kind of abstract thinking is – useful. Yes. But impressive? Not for me. I'm impressed with people who get out there and face the danger. Who take the risk of making a wrong decision and then living with it. You wanna know what impresses me? I once was called to a hostage situation. So I was lying on a roof, ready to knock out one of the bad guys, just waiting for the signal. They were the horror for us, permanently changing their demands, arguing with each other, pointing guns at the hostages and at themselves... it just couldn't possibly end without some dead bodies. But then a relatively young FBI-Agent took the telephone and started to _shout_ at them. _I_ expected him to be shot in seconds. But instead he distracted them long enough that SWAT could start an suprising attack. Nobody got harmed that day. Jeez, this man had balls..."

 

Don smiled at the memory of this incredibly lightheaded, the-devil-may-care-version of himself.

 

"The same man managed some years later not only to forgive one of his agents after the man's exposure as a spy but to reintegrated him into the team he was lying to and writing reports about for two years. That, my dearest friend, is truly impressive."

 

For a moment both reminisced silenty.

 

"Your brother.. you once described him as a puppy. And now that I know him, I've to say, I completely agree with that. Sure, he is cute in his tapsy, clumsy style. One always watches out for him."

 

He grinned amused. But Don's face hardened for a moment, just a glimpse. Gently Ian laid a hand onto Don's cheek and forced him to look up to him. It wasn't romantical nor pityful. He just needed to show Don the seriousness of this statement.

 

"And there's the problem. I don't want to have to look out for people. I get stressed by guys not being able to handle themselves. My god, especially at a scene. It's a distraction and an annoying one.

 

I like working with you a lot more, even though you are as stubborn as an ox. If I think about it, more than with a lot of agents, even other ones in your position. Beause you and me, we _fit._ We can rely one on another. I'll always have your back – but I'll always be just the emergency exit. With you leading the mission I can fully concentrate on my part. And be sure that I don't have to be the one cleaning up a mess. That's rare."

 

There was a moment of silence between them. Then Ian returned to the playful, wolfish grin he used to wear.

 

"Your brother is... sweet. But – and that's for sure, Don Eppes – I'm not the candy type."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It didn't turn out to be the text I had in mind... but who cares! ;) 
> 
> It's also not in the well-written literal style I wanted it to be, but I'm glad I even got to finish it. Took long enough! Well-written texts next time.


End file.
